


I wanna raise you to be like her

by bowlingfornerds



Series: long fics [21]
Category: The 100
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Kid Fic, Orphange, Orphans, Social Workers, kids fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 04:08:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6314662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bowlingfornerds/pseuds/bowlingfornerds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“They are my kids, Clarke,” he tells her. “They may get adopted and leave, but they’re mine, and I love them all.” Clarke watches him for a moment longer, and meets his eyes. Maybe she sees that he’s telling the truth, maybe she’s surprised, but she looks to her mug.</p><p>“Not a lot of people say that,” she responds.</p><p>*</p><p>Bellamy was just trying to take care of his sister - but somewhere along the way he bought a building and started his own orphanage. Now he has a house full of kids, running around, getting into trouble, and wanting good homes. Obviously, Bellamy finds himself loving each one of them like his own life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> congrats if you got this far - what a terrible summary that is.  
> SO, title from macklemore's 'growing up', and basically, this is the ultimate, mega-sized kid fic. it's just full of bellamy-child interactions, and basically all characters from the 100 are children and orphans in this story.
> 
> this fic couldn't have been possible without [becauseclintbarton](http://becauseclintbarton.tumblr.com/mestuff) on tumblr, who came up with the following prompt: "Modern AU where Bellamy was JUST TRYING TO TAKE CARE OF HIS SISTER OKAY but somehow ends up in charge of his own orphanage &he is really dedicated because these are His Children. Clarke is the social worker that helps w/finding good homes & legal stuff"
> 
> also all love is sent to Lana who is lovely and is a bucketful of motivation when i got stuck half with through this fic. this is the first chapter of 4, all written, all edited, just waiting in a word document.
> 
> please enjoy.

Bellamy knows that the kids at the Blake Orphan Home don’t need _him_ , but they need _someone_ and he’s as good as they’ve got.

The home is situated right on the border between the upper end of Ark, and the lower side, and Bellamy’s become quite comfortable in the centre. He was born in the deepest pits of the working class community, and whilst he’ll never make it to the mansions, Bellamy has found himself a happy middle.

The dinner bell rings, and immediately Bellamy can hear the thundering of footsteps. He manages to luck out with the kids he gets – most get adopted within a few years of arriving, and only two in the past five years have ever reached being a teenager before they’re chosen. At the oldest, Octavia is fifteen and a whirlwind. She’s his little sister and she’s staying, whether a prospective parent likes the look of her or not – Octavia is _his_. Up until he met the kids of the orphanage that he started, she was his one allotted good thing. Whilst he gets lots of good things now, Bellamy plans to keep her for as long as he can before she goes out into the world.

She, like always, is first at the table. Octavia can’t get enough of her food. He sends her a smirk and she grins.

“I’m a growing girl, Bell,” she says, and the tables are soon bustling with little bodies. He has twenty two kids in total, and they are – for all intents and purposes – _his_ kids. He loves each one of them and every prospective parent is looked into rigorously before he agrees to let them move. Bellamy wants what’s best for his kids – and what’s best is the world.

Each one deserves the entire world and Bellamy won’t settle for any less.

Miller slips out of the kitchen and opens the hatch; the aroma of the Bolognese immediately floating into the dining room. Near his side, Zoe Monroe – fiery hair in three even braids (made by his own hands) – tugs on his sleeve.

“Will you sit next to me, today?” she asks. Zoe is eight, and has been here since the very beginning. The first day he opened the orphanage – the only other one in Ark shutting down – she was delivered to the doorstep by a social worker. Of course, there were actually nine of them on that day, but the other eight have all been adopted.

Bellamy smiles down at her, nodding.

“Course, Zo,” he replies. She pouts.

“Monroe,” Zoe corrects. “I want to be called by my last name.”

“And why’s that?” Bellamy crouches down to her height.

“Miller does it,” she says, nodding to his best friend by the kitchen. “I want to be like him when I grow up.” Bellamy smiles, nodding.

“He’s a good person to be like,” Bellamy agrees. “Alright, Monroe-“ she smiles a little brighter. “Go sit down and I’ll be there in a minute.” Monroe skips off over to her seat, purposefully spreading out to save him a space. The thing about Monroe is that she doesn’t seem to _want_ to be adopted – she doesn’t want to live somewhere new, with a different family. Over the five years Blake Orphan Home has been around, she’s had almost forty parents meet with her, all of which have found her to be too much to handle, or just liked the next kid along a little better.

Bellamy knows better than anyone that it’s a cruel world for orphaned kids, and he stands up straighter, looking across the ones that he cares for. They’re _his_ kids, and he only wants what’s best.

“Alright, is everyone here?” The room quietens down, and Monty pokes his head through the hatch to listen in. “Speak if you’re not here.” It’s an old joke but it still gets a few giggles out of the younger ones.

Bellamy shoots a look at Octavia, who’s counting the heads. She gives him a thumbs up when she reaches twenty one – twenty two including herself.

“Alright, we’re going to say thanks before we eat,” Bellamy says, like he does every day. It’s never been a religious thing, just a being grateful one. “So, if we can all be silent, and be thankful that we’re all alive, we’re all healthy, we have some fantastic food on the table and a roof above our heads. We may not have everything, but we have enough, and what we have is good.”

They’re quiet for a moment before he claps his hands. “Alright, let’s eat.”

The food’s passed out and Monty, Miller and Bellamy seat themselves at the tables. Bellamy has Monroe on his left, as promised, and he helps her with her spaghetti – because she’s always been terrible at twirling it around her fork. Opposite him, Sterling takes three attempts to tell a _why did the chicken cross the road_ joke, but he makes it through and Bellamy laughs, telling him that it was great.

It’s dark outside by the time they finish dinner, and the light from the street lamps shines through the windows. The kids help passing plates into the kitchen, and Bellamy calls up the two Johns – Murphy and Mbege – to help clean up, because it’s their turn. The boys grumble all the way into the kitchen, but when he walks in after clearing up the rest of the table, he finds them laughing as they flick water at each other.

“Remember,” Miller says as he packs his bag for the night. Next to him, Monty pulls on his coat. “The new social worker is coming in at nine tomorrow. The files are all on your desk-“

“I will offer them a drink and be nice,” Bellamy responds. “Don’t worry, _anyone_ is better than Cage.” Monty smiles.

“When they called to confirm the time, I asked if we had anyone like him,” he says. Bellamy quirks an eyebrow. “They said that the woman they’re sending is practically the opposite – apparently we lucked out.”

“We better hope so,” Bellamy agrees. “Cage tried to shut this place down.”

“But he didn’t,” Miller says mildly. He pulls on his jacket as he talks . “We’re still standing and the kids have a home. We’ll see you at breakfast.” They say their goodbyes and Bellamy watches as they walk out, swinging their joined hands between them. After a moment, he moves through the house, checking on and talking to the different kids, asking about their day at school and trying to get in some one-on-one time with each of them.

At seven, Bellamy does the first round, getting the littlest of the bunch and sending them to bed. He does the same at eight and eight thirty, too.

“Bell,” Harper whispers into the dark, twelve and the only one awake in her room. Bellamy stops by the door, the room almost black save for the dim lamp in the corner, glowing pink, and looks back.

“Yeah?” Harper’s silent for a moment and Bellamy makes his way over. Each room has two bunk beds and Harper’s on the lower one on the left hand side. He sits on the edge of her bed, and she wriggles her hand into his grasp.

“Do I have to go to school tomorrow?” She asks, her voice tiny. Bellamy smiles sympathetically.

“You do, I’m afraid.” Harper frowns. “I didn’t like school either, Harp, but we all have to go.”

“Will you walk me tomorrow, then?” Bellamy pauses, studying the girl’s face in the dark. He can make out the whites of her eyes and her mousy brown hair, splayed across the pillow. He has the meeting with the social worker at nine, and Bellamy usually sends the younger ones with the older ones to school. The kids are spread out across four different schools in total, and he or Octavia walks to at least the youngest infant school, before he has to go back and start on the paper work and clean the house. Right now, only Octavia and Harper are in secondary school, and they go to two separate schools. Even so, they tend to walk the primary school-age kids to their school without him.

Even though he has a meeting, and he knows Harper can go on her own, Bellamy nods. In the dark, he can see her relax.

“Of course, Harp,” he whispers. “But I can’t if you don’t get some sleep first.” Harper nods and Bellamy tucks her in, pressing a kiss to her forehead which she promptly wipes off with the back of her hand.

“Night, Bell.”

“Night, Harper.”

Downstairs, Octavia lounges across the sofa, and Bellamy flops down next to her.

“Everything alright?” she asks. He nods even though he’s exhausted. Sometimes, it feels like he hasn’t slept in five years.

“Yeah, yeah it’s all good,” he replies. Octavia smiles like she knows he’s tired even in his bones. She shifts so she’s leaning on him, her arm curling around his torso.

“You’re the best big brother there ever was,” she tells him. It feels like a victory.

-

Mornings are always a rush. They have twenty five people under a single roof, rushing around to make sure everyone is fed, in the correct uniform, and clean by eight o’clock, and it is probably one of the most difficult parts about running the orphanage.

Like every day, at least seven of them want a shower, and the others are banging down the doors, wanting to brush their teeth. Murphy’s probably thrown some food on the floor, which Monty will either clean up or place a chair over with a ‘do not move’ sign, so no one slips on it. Miller and Monty will have lined up the cereal and the bowls – toast is for the weekend, and no one wants to spare three loaves of bread each morning.

Octavia isn’t much help, either, because she’s still in school and is probably rushing homework due in first lesson, at the breakfast table, spooning cereal into her mouth and scribbling across her worksheet. Bellamy has been up since six AM, because there are a lot of early risers – mainly the girls – and he’s already braided so much hair that, like every morning, he never wants to see another strand of it again.

But, like nine out of ten mornings, everyone is ready to go at the right time. They check each one for homework, school books and their water bottles. Every child without fail has free school meals, and it’s one less thing for them to worry about in the morning.

“Is anyone ready to go yet?” Bellamy calls out. The sound of the thunder is heard as children run down the stairs, bags on their backs and shoes on their feet. Octavia is standing with her hair loose about her shoulders, waiting for a group. He sends her a glance and she straightens, pushing herself away from the wall.

“Where’s my group of warriors?” Octavia asks. Various children raise their hands and Octavia nods. She counts them up, and calls out “I’m missing a warrior?”

“Coming!” Roma runs out from the bathroom and Octavia grins, feral but sweet – which Bellamy didn’t know was possible.

“We’re ready to go then.” She leads them out the door, after pressing a kiss to Bellamy’s cheek. A little hoard of children follow her in their wake, all going to the primary school a few roads away. Monroe, in particular, quickly hugs his leg before rushing out the door. She’ll drop them off there before meeting her own friends and heading up to her school. Bellamy counts up the rest.

“All good?” he asks. He sees a few nods, and ushers them out the door. Miller dries his hands on a tea towel, seeing them off.

“Make sure you’re back in time for the meeting,” he says as a goodbye. Bellamy smiles, saluting his friend.

“Of course, Sargent Miller.” His best friend scrunches up his nose unappreciatively.

“That’s my Dad,” is all he says.

Bellamy drops off the majority of his group at the infant school, and they all insist on giving him a hug before running off in the playground. He says a quick hello to the teacher in charge – who’ll be watching his kids because he can’t stay to do so.

“Let’s get you to school,” he says to Harper, the only one he has left, nodding her back to the road.

They walk to school in silence for the first few minutes, before he starts up a conversation. Bellamy’s pretty sure that Harper won’t tell him what’s wrong if he asks, so he ducks around the topic and asks about individual subjects, about her friends, about her workload. Harper’s in her first year of secondary school, at twelve, and she talks quite openly about how she doesn’t like the amount of homework, or certain teachers.

When they reach the school gates, they slow to a halt. “Have a good day,” he tells her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She leans into the hug and they stay there for a moment, before she pulls back, looking at the ground. “Whatever it is, Harp, you’re strong, and you’ll make it through, I promise.” Harper nods and he smiles at her. “If you need to talk about it, I’m always listening, okay?”

“Thanks, Bell,” she says. “I’ll see you when I get home.” Harper turns and walks past the gates, mounting the steps up to the school. Bellamy watches until she’s out of sight, in the building, before turning and walking home. He tries to walk quickly but – he has twenty minutes until the new social worker will arrive, and he’s a good forty minute walk away. Bellamy hopes they’re late, too.

-

Clarke Griffin is not late. Clarke Griffin turns up twenty minutes _early_ and has spent forty minutes being entertained by Monty, because Monty Green is a people person and Nathan Miller is not.

Bellamy rushes into the house, letting the door swing shut behind him. To his right is the dining room; two large tables with the benches tucked underneath, and a woman nursing a mug of a dark drink. Her hair is up in a neat bun, and her clothes look expensive and well-kept. At the sound of the door, she turns and Bellamy is met with shining blue eyes. He smiles apologetically at the two of them.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, moving over to the table and sitting opposite the woman. “Ark Academy is further than I’d accounted for.”

“Isn’t that the secondary school?” The woman asks and Bellamy nods. “Can’t your kids walk themselves to school if they’re that age?” Bellamy heats up a little inside, but he lets the comment pass because she’s _right_ , and she doesn’t know that he would do _literally anything_ for his kids, including walk them to a school they’re perfectly capable of getting to themselves.

“Yeah, but Harper insisted,” he replies. Bellamy shoots a look to Monty. “If she talks to you about anything, can you let me know?” Monty nods.

“Is she having trouble?”

“I think so. She won’t say anything but – but I think so.”

“I’ll let Miller know,” Monty replies. “It was nice talking to you, Clarke,” he says to the woman.

“You too, Monty.” The woman – Clarke – turns her eyes to Bellamy when the kitchen door swings shut. “I haven’t introduced myself,” she says, very formal. “I’m Clarke Griffin; I’ll be your new social worker for the Blake Orphan Home.” She shakes his hand across the table, and Bellamy notices how soft her skin is. It’s not like he purposely notices, but, well, he _does_.

“Bellamy Blake,” he says in response.

“Right, let’s cover the formalities first, Mr. Blake.”

“Call me Bellamy, Ms Griffin.”

“Clarke,” she corrects, smiling politely. Clarke spreads out her folders in front of her – each of them colour coded along the sides, and when she opens them, highlighted neatly. “So your last worker was Cage Wallace, and I see you made various complaints about him.” Bellamy nods. “If you don’t mind my asking, what were those about?” Bellamy rubs the back of his neck.

“He didn’t care about the kids, really,” he replies. “He was a royal jerk-off, too, but he literally couldn’t care less about whether the kids were happy or not, and well, that’s a priority for me.” Clarke nods, scribbling something in the margin of the page, which is surprising for two reasons:

  1. Because everything looks exceptionally tidy, as if she would have a heart attack if there were writing in the margins. And,
  2. Because her hand writing is downright _appalling_.



“And how many kids do you have in your care?” Clarke flips the page over, to another form. She’s very precise in her movements.

“Officially, twenty two,” Bellamy answers. “But twenty one regarding orphans without families.” It almost pains him to say ‘without families’, because Bellamy spends so much time making the home into a family for his kids. Clarke probably doesn’t notice as she notes this down.

“What about the twenty second?” She questions, and Bellamy notes actual curiosity alight in her eyes.

“She’s my sister,” he says. “I’m her legal guardian.”

“And she’s under eighteen?” Bellamy nods.

“Is that important though?” Clarke pauses.

“Just for the records,” she replies. “Though I’m sure you have some of those?” Bellamy nods, moving to get up.

“They’re in the office, I’ll bring them out.”

-

Bellamy isn’t really sure what he thinks about Clarke Griffin. She’s neat, put together, like she doesn’t get her hands dirty or even _know_ what it’s like to take care of a child. Occasionally, throughout the two hours they spend together, he tries to pry some information about her out, because he’s nosy and she’s also pretty attractive to look at. But she notices each time and switches the subject. All he gets out of her is that her mother is a doctor, when she’s able to tell him the definition of complex allergy that Sterling has before he can say it.

At the end of the meeting, she smiles, closing her folders. “I think that’s about it,” she says. “Of course, I’d like to come back, have meetings with each child – I’ll need to get to know them, too, during this process. But I’m confident we can find them all good homes.”

He likes her confidence, but he doesn’t like the way it sounds just like a job to her – not like it’s something she’s going to put her heart and soul into.

He’s probably being too picky about it, but Bellamy can’t help but want the best possible social worker for his kids. He can’t help but be overly protective.

Clarke Griffin leaves and promises to be back on Saturday, to meet each of the kids and form her own files on them, even though she has copies of the ones Bellamy’s been keeping.

He tidies the things away and finds Miller and Monty in the kitchen. Miller is lining up cans and vegetables for tonight’s dinner and Monty is cleaning the hob of the cooker.

“So?” Miller asks. Bellamy places Clarke’s mug in the sink and leans against the counter.

“I’m not sure about her,” he replies.

“She’s lovely,” Monty tells him.

“I’m sure she is, but she’s really stiff and formal about it all.” Monty rolls his eyes and Miller smiles to himself.

“It’s her first day,” his best friend replies. “Give her some time. I know she’s not going to match up to your sheer amount of love for the kids – no one can do that, but you’ve got to let her try.” Bellamy nods slowly, letting out a sigh.

“What now?” Monty asks, spraying the metal and scrubbing harder at a stubborn piece of burnt food.

“She’s really cute, though,” Bellamy says. Miller laughs and Bellamy excuses himself to go tidy the living room.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fox is adorable don't try and tell me otherwise

Saturday is one of the slow-rising days. Every day is a slow-rising day, really, but Saturday is the day where no one has anywhere to be, but they feel like they should get up anyway, because they have the possibility of going out. Clarke doesn’t seem to realise this and arrives promptly at eight thirty in the morning.

Bellamy opens the door, yawning and in his pyjamas, a nervous Fox clinging to his leg. Clarke, still dressed up formally, looks surprised between the two of them.

“Oh, did I wake you?” She asks, clutching her binder to her chest. Bellamy shakes his head.

“Nah, Fox did though.” He nods to the little girl, six years old. “She’s the only one up, otherwise.”

“Oh,” Clarke looks behind her, before back to Fox, watching carefully. “I can come back later?” Bellamy waves her off.

“Come in, get a drink or something. Miller and Monty won’t be here to make breakfast for another half an hour, but I’m sure you can find something in the kitchen.” He moves out the way for her, and Clarke shuffles in, looking around the empty house.

“Everyone else is asleep?” she asks. Bellamy shrugs, shutting and locking the door behind her.

“Or refusing to get up,” he replies. Clarke seems to keep glancing back at him as she slips her bag and binder onto the table in the dining room. Bellamy looks down at Fox. “Are you coming with?” Fox hesitates before nodding. Her smile is small, but he smiles widely, still tired. “Come on, then.”

Bellamy leans down and Fox holds her arms out. She’s small for her age and light, and she wraps her arms around his neck as he holds her at his side.

“We’re going to talk with Clarke, if that’s okay?” Fox nods, resting her head on his shoulder, and Bellamy nods Clarke through to the kitchen. She’s looking at him funny, but he realises it’s the first time she’s seen him interact with any of the kids – Bellamy wonders if other foster parents are this close to their kids, or if it’s just him.

“I’ll make sure not to come this early again,” Clarke says as she follows him.

“It’s fine,” Bellamy replies. “Someone’s always awake in the house, and if they’re under twelve they’ll come and get me or O.”

“Twelve is the age to start opening the door?” Bellamy nods, flicking on the kettle.

“And answer the phone.” He looks about the room, before turning to Fox.

“You hungry, Fennec?” Fox smiles into his shoulder, nodding. Clarke raises her eyebrows, sitting on a stool by the counter.

“Fennec?” Bellamy goes to the bread and pulls out the brown loaf, knowing it’s Fox’s favourite.

“Fennec is the smallest breed of Fox,” he replies with a smile. Clarke nods slowly, like she’s trying to figure him out. “Marmite or chocolate?”

“Jam?” Fox asks. Bellamy nods, moving about the room and using his spare hand to get a plate, knife, butter and jam.

“Are you hungry, Clarke?” he asks, belatedly remembering she’s there.

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” she replies. “I’ve eaten.” Bellamy nods, setting Fox down on the worktop next to her plate.

“So, are you going to be interviewing each of the kids?” They have an interview room in the house, which is used for prospective parents. Bellamy imagines she can do that in there. Clarke nods, suddenly confident in the situation again.

“Yes, I was hoping to. It’s just introductory – so I can learn their names, ages, if they like it here, how they’re feeling about being adopted.”

“You need to know how they’re feeling about it?” Bellamy asks. Clarke nods, frowning a little.

“Of course, did Cage never ask them?” Bellamy shoots a look at Fox, who’s listening in as obviously as possible. She shakes her head.

“I didn’t think so, either,” Bellamy says. “It was really formal and basic with him,” he adds to Clarke. “Just, name, age, here’s a parent who might want you. That’s what he did.”

“He was scary,” Fox says quietly, almost to herself. Bellamy smiles sadly at her, rubbing his hand on her arm.

“Yeah, he was pretty creepy,” he agrees. The toast pops up and Bellamy goes about making Fox’s breakfast, the way she likes it. He lets the butter melt into the toast before spreading the jam, and then finds her a plastic cup and fills it half way with milk. The kettle clicks and he pours Clarke and his coffees, Clarke saying that she takes it plain and black.

Fox bites into her toast and nods at him.

“In here or in the living room?” he asks her.

“Living room, please,” she replies, her mouth full. Bellamy smiles as she places the toast back down on the plate, and helps her onto the floor. Clarke picks up their coffees and Bellamy carries Fox’s drink, leading her into the living room.

Fox’s favourite seat is the arm chair, so it’s no surprise when she curls up in it. He hands her the TV remote, too, and she turns on the kids channel, her attention switching from the two adults on the sofa to the television.

“You’re… you’re really good with kids, huh?” Clarke asks, handing Bellamy his mug of coffee. He snorts.

“I run an orphanage,” he replies. “What did you expect?” She looks between him and Fox carefully.

“I don’t know – just, a little more distance between you and the kids. I didn’t expect you to get along with them so well.”

He studies Clarke for a moment; her eyes are the colour of the sky on those bright, cloudless summer days, and her hair is the sun. She seems mostly comfortable in her fancy, tidy clothes, and whilst he still can’t imagine her in mud or paint, there are a few wisps of hair, loose about her face, that makes him wonder if he judged her wrong the first time. More importantly, she seems to be studying his face, too.

When Bellamy speaks, he does so slowly and carefully, hoping that she understands every word clearly.

“They are _my_ kids, Clarke,” he tells her. “They may get adopted and leave, but they’re mine, and I love them all.” Clarke watches him for a moment longer, and meets his eyes. Maybe she sees that he’s telling the truth, maybe she’s surprised, but she looks to her mug.

“Not a lot of people say that,” she responds.

-

The interviews go on all day, and Bellamy watches as his kids go in and out of the interview room, cautious of this new person who claims to want what’s best for them. After Atom’s done, he comes and flops onto the sofa next to Bellamy.

“How was it?” he asks.

“She’s alright,” Atom responds, knowing exactly what Bellamy was really asking. He rolls his eyes anyway. “She just wanted to know about my previous homes and stuff.” Atom wasn’t given up, like a lot of the others. He had a happy family and two parents that loved him more than anything, before their untimely deaths. As he had no other family, Atom was passed around two other orphanages before landing in the Blake Home, and he’s been there for about seven months.

“Did she ask if you like it here?” Bellamy asks. Atom nods, sitting up.

“I told her that I do,” he replies, ten and catching onto Bellamy much faster than a lot of the others. “But that I’d also like to be out of here at some point.” Bellamy furrows his brow.

“What do you mean?”

“I _mean_ that I want to get adopted or something,” he says. “It’s great here, sure – but it’s not a _home_ home, you know?” Bellamy doesn’t know, but he nods anyway. Atom shrugs. “She’s fine though – nothing like Creepy Cage.” Atom leaves and Bellamy sits, dumbfounded. He knows that the kids want homes with traditional two-parent families; they don’t want to be in an orphanage for the rest of their lives, but Bellamy’s a little surprised to find that even a single child doesn’t consider this their actual _home_.

No, he’s not surprised. Forget that. He’s fucking heartbroken.

But he’s Bellamy Blake, and Blakes dust themselves off and then clean their bedroom because they need to keep their mind on the right priorities. He wanders round the house, and checks on the kids; a couple are doing homework, Octavia’s in her room (otherwise known as the attic, which she gets to herself because it’s tiny, legally allowed to be a bedroom, and she’s older than everyone else and doesn’t like having a fairy pink night light like in the girls’ room) blasting music, and there’s a couple of kids in the garden, kicking a ball around.

When Monroe comes out of her interview, she smiles at him.

“I like her,” she announces. “But she doesn’t think I’m right so we need to change that.”

“Right about what?” Bellamy asks. Monroe taps her finger to the side of her nose – a signal that she only learnt a few weeks ago, probably from The Parent Trap, before skipping off into the garden.

Finally, when all the meetings are over, Bellamy makes his way into the interview room. Clarke looks up, surprised, when the door opens.

“Oh, hey,” she relaxes.

“How’d they go?” Clarke nods, a pile of folders on the floor next to her, and one on the table in front.

“Good, I learnt a lot.” Bellamy slides down into the chair opposite, wringing his fingers together. “You want to know what they said, right?” He’s a little astonished that she guessed that, but he tries not to look it.

“Yeah, that would be nice.”

“Well, there’s a lot I’m not allowed to say – privacy and such,” she nods to the folder that she flips shut. “But they’re all happy, it seems.” A weight seems to fall off of Bellamy’s chest and he lets out a relieved sigh. Clarke smirks at that. “They like you – you’re doing good.”

“But a lot want to leave, right?” Clarke raises her eyebrows.

“What, you don’t want them to?”

“It’s not that,” he replies. “It’s just weird when they want to. I mean – I know it’s because they want actual _families_ and stuff, but it’s also…” he trails off, rolling his lower lip into his mouth and looking out the window behind Clarke. He can’t see much – just the fence that separates this house from the one next door. Clarke nods anyway.

“You feel like you’re their family too, and it’s strange for them to want to leave,” she guesses. Bellamy nods and Clarke’s smile is sympathetic. “If it helps, they all consider you as a family member?” Bellamy breathes out a sigh. They’re quiet for a moment, before she speaks again. “I have one child I want to ask about, though.”

Bellamy sits up as Clarke rifles through her folders. A few slip off the stack but she doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, she just finds the one she’s looking for, and places it in front of her on the desk.

“Zoe Monroe,” she reads aloud. Bellamy nods. “So, Zoe-“

“It’s Monroe,” Bellamy corrects quickly. Clarke frowns at him. “She prefers to be called by her last name.” Clarke seems to study him, searching for the truth, for a moment before nodding and pencilling it in a notes box.

“Monroe,” she says slowly, in case he corrects her again. “Doesn’t seem to want to leave. Ever.” Bellamy frowns.

He can’t say he’s one hundred percent surprised, but-

Well, he’s surprised.

“Never?” Clarke shakes her head.

“She’s had thirty seven different meetings with prospective parents in the last five years,” Clarke says, looking at the folder in front of her. “And I have Cage’s notes – where the parents made comments - that he wrote down.” Bellamy furrows his brow. “You didn’t know that? Oh, well apparently she sort of _drives_ them away?”

“What?”

“Yeah, when I was talking to her, she didn’t admit it as such, but the parents said that she would act either really aloof, or rude to them, so they would lean towards another kid instead? One parent said that she straight up told them that she didn’t want to be adopted by them, and to choose someone else… Cage didn’t tell you this?”

“He’s bloody useless,” Bellamy grumbles. Clarke nods like she’s known this all along.

“Right, and Monroe said that she’d like to stay here, when I mentioned about being adopted into a family. Which- I mean, it’s not against any rules, to stay here, but it’s also against the purpose of the establishment.” Bellamy nods slowly as Clarke continues. “You’re here to look after the children and raise them whilst we find them families to go into – keeping them isn’t what you’re made for.”

Bellamy hums noncommittally, and Clarke sits back in her chair.

“You may love your kids, Bellamy, but growing up in a house of twenty and not getting the attention and support each one needs and deserves might not be the best thing for them.”

-

“I hate her,” Bellamy announces in the kitchen after dinner. Clarke had stayed for the meal before rushing off, and Miller snorts from where he’s stacking plates.

“Why’s that, Mr. Over-Dramatic?”

“Because – because she doesn’t see this how I do,” he sighs. Monty looks over from the sink.

“And how do you see this?”

“I see this as…” Bellamy struggles for the words. “This is my family – this house, and all these kids, they’re my kids, my family. I’m happy for them to move on, yeah – but, if they want to stay in this family, who am I to stop them?”

Miller gives him a dry look. “I assume Clarke doesn’t see this so much as a family, but as a way to help transition the kids from one home to another?”

“You’re good at this,” Bellamy points out.

“No, I just spoke with her earlier,” he replies. “Bell – this is what an orphanage _does_. We have our roles here – you run the house, Monty and I do the cooking and cleaning, even _Octavia_ has a role somewhere in there.”

“Bell,” Monty sighs. “If a kid doesn’t want to leave, none of us can make them, but we have to _try_.”

“Why? Why do we have to try?” Monty dries his hands on the tea towel.

“Because, like you have told us time and time again, each of these kids deserve the world. You’ve got to help them get to it. If a kid doesn’t want to go, it’s because they’re probably afraid of the world outside these walls – because you’ve made their life here great and comfortable, it’ll be all they know. But that’s not good enough for them, Bell – they need challenges and adventures.”

Bellamy swallows and looks away.

“I’m going to do the rounds,” he mumbles. Bellamy slinks out of the room and doesn’t bother to listen to the hushed whispers of his friends after he’s gone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> things happen i suppose

Over the next two months, they manage to get Mel, Sterling and Mbege adopted, thanks to Clarke Griffin. She slowly claws her way back to his good side – she’s fantastic with the legal work, and genuinely wants to see each of the kids in their own happy home (not to mention that she’s actually funny and smart – her laugh seems as if it catches even her by surprise). They also get three new kids, taking them back up to their original amount, and Clarke phones him on the day they’re due to arrive.

“I’ll be there in half an hour with the three of them,” she says, a caution.

“I know,” Bellamy replies. They’ve told Harper’s room and Murphy’s that they’ll have new kids in the bunks.

“You’re aware that one of them is a ten month old baby, right?” Bellamy hesitates.

“You never mentioned this.”

“Well I’m mentioning it now.”

“ _Clarke_ ,” he sighs.

“I wasn’t told until I just met her.”

“Fine, that’s alright. We’ll manage – we are equipped to look after babies, it’s just we’ve only ever had one of them.”

“So you’ll manage?”

“There isn’t an alternative, Clarke,” he replies. Bellamy makes his way into the kitchen, where Monty’s washing up the dishes from breakfast. It’s a Saturday and he’s pretty sure Miller’s gone out shopping.

“Well there is – but that involves putting the baby directly back into the system,” she says. “Which means she’ll get passed around from person to person for a while, before ending up in a different orphanage, or maybe a foster home-“

“Clarke,” he stops her. “We’re taking the kid. Just hold on.” He puts a hand over the receiver of the phone. “Monty, can you phone Miller?”

“Yeah, why?”

“One of the new kids is a baby, so we need the right stuff for her.” Monty grimaces for a moment before nodding and drying his hands. He pulls out his phone and Bellamy presses his back to his ear.

“There, we’re all set.”

“You don’t sound so sure,” Clarke replies.

“Well I am. Just bring the kids round and we’ll get them sorted out.”

The kids are both nine. The boy is called Finn Collins, and he has pale skin and long dark hair. His hand is gripped tightly with the little Latina girl called Raven Reyes, with a full fringe but the rest of her hair up in a ponytail. She’s glaring at everything and everyone, and he can’t blame her – Clarke’s told him about the kids. They were next door neighbours and their houses burnt down, taking their parents with them.

“Right, Finn and Raven are going to be here for a few months, hopefully,” Clarke tells him. She’s holding the baby carrier, and the mound inside squirms. “Finn has family that lives a little while away, and Raven will hopefully be going to live there with him.” Bellamy smiles down at the new kids – Finn responds with a blank look and Raven just glares harder.

“And who’s this?” he asks, nodding to the baby. She’s not small by any means – almost a toddler, but definitely not speaking, just gurgling with a little tuft of hair.

“This is Charlotte,” Clarke introduces. “She’s not even a year old, so hopefully we’ll be able to find her a family quite quickly – I’ve already got a few leads on that.” Bellamy nods, taking the carrier from Clarke and placing it on one of the dining room tables. He lifts out Charlotte, holding her to his chest. She doesn’t cry, just squirms in his grip, and he smiles.

“Don’t worry, Charlie,” he smiles. “You’ll be fine here.” Bellamy looks to Raven and Finn and nods. “Why don’t I show you to your rooms and you can meet the people you’ll be sharing with?”

Dinner that night is a little quieter. Most of them are in awe over the baby in their midst, who sits in a high chair with Bellamy, and is fed different food to the rest of them. Clarke sits at the other table, and Bellamy finds himself watching her every now and again.

The kids took to her quite easily after the initial interviews. Whilst she’s still the fancy social worker in perfect clothes, and cringes when one of them spills their food, she’s proven herself to be good at solving arguments and helping them with their homework. Clarke comes around a little more often, under the pretence of helping the kids and getting to know them, but really spends a lot of her time laughing with Bellamy and trying to persuade him to play Twister with whichever of the kids want to play it that day.

-

She’s been around for almost four months when things go wrong.

Charlotte’s paper work about getting her handed off to another family that wants her is still processing, and soon Bellamy won’t be woken up in the early hours of the morning, finding the tiny baby in the crib in his room, screaming her heart out. Monroe is still not leaving and has wrecked her six interviews with prospective parents that she’s had since Clarke started (not all in vain though, because another three kids have been adopted since Raven and Finn arrived). Harper is still going to school in the most reluctant of ways; like she would rather be boiling in a vat of acid than walk back in there.

Raven and Finn have integrated themselves into the Blake Home, but they barely leave one another’s sides. Finn, however, has found that he likes sitting in the kitchen, helping Miller and Monty cook dinner. Raven’s found herself out in the back garden a lot, playing football with some of the others, and teaching them the keepie-uppies game with the ball. She can make it to seventeen before the ball hits the ground.

And then there’s John Murphy, who Bellamy has been watching slowly slip away after his best friend, John Mbege, was adopted and moved across the country. He _tried_ so hard to stop it, to give John something positive to focus his energy into, to talk to him – but it doesn’t help.

It’s almost dinner time when there’s a knock on Bellamy’s bedroom door. It’s wide open and he’s just setting Charlotte down for her nap so she can sleep through the group dinner, and Monroe is standing there, Harper in tow, both with worried looks on their faces.

“We didn’t want to bother Miller and Monty,” Monroe says, apologetic.

“There was a knock on the door,” Harper adds. “There’s two cops standing there.” Bellamy freezes for a second, before straightening.

“Right,” he says. Monroe looks close to tears. “What’s wrong, kiddo?” He quickly kneels down in front of her.

“I didn’t do anything wrong, I promise!” she cries, and Bellamy smiles sympathetically.

“I’m sure you didn’t,” he tells her, pulling her in for a hug. “I’m just going to talk to the nice men, and you go wash up for dinner, okay?” He presses a kiss to Monroe’s temple, and she nods, harshly wiping at the stray tears with the back of her hand.

Bellamy jogs down the stairs, and over to the front door, directly opposite. A few kids are looking around the corner of the living room, watching with wide eyes as two policemen stand, stoic, on the front porch.

“Sargent Miller,” Bellamy greets, a little thankful. He shakes Miller’s father’s hand and David smiles.

“Bellamy,” he nods. “This is my partner, Lieutenant Byrne.” His partner is a tall, hardened woman with blonde hair pulled back. It would remind him of Clarke if she didn’t have zero hairs out of place; just tight and neat. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

Bellamy hesitates before nodding. He invites them in, shutting the door behind them, and shooing off the kids who are watching. Bellamy leads them to the interview room.

David and Byrne don’t sit down, but stand, stiffly.

“What can I do you for?” Bellamy asks nervously.

“It’s about one of your kids,” David says. Monroe crying flashes into his mind, but he shakes it away.

“Which one?”

“John Murphy,” Byrne replies. Bellamy stops breathing for a second, racking his brain for the image of John coming home from school. He’s suddenly aware that out of the nineteen kids they currently look after, John hasn’t been seen today.

“Shit,” Bellamy breathes.

“He was arrested for vandalism and destruction of property – there were a few other’s at the scene of the crime, but each of them managed to escape.” Bellamy swears that his whole world stops. It just falters and crashes and burns right in front of him.

This is one of his kids – one of the children that he has been raising, for _three years_. Ten year old John Murphy has been with him for three years and Bellamy didn’t see this coming. He wonders if this is what a heart attack feels like, but he’s moving and he’s swearing and he’s ready to punch a wall; all of the aggression and world-hatred that had fuelled him as a teenager rising to the surface.

“Where is he now?” Bellamy asks, probably too harsh. But neither of them flinch.

“He’s at the station, in holding,” David replies calmly. “I would call your social worker and meet down there, so we can iron this out as quickly as possible.” Bellamy nods, and David heads off to the kitchen before they leave.

Bellamy dials Clarke, but gets her voicemail. He paces around the room, huffing, as he phones again. And again. And again. He groans, shoving his phone into his pocket.

“Did you talk to Clarke?” Miller asks. David and Byrne are in the kitchen with Monty and Miller, and Bellamy shakes his head. He takes his jacket from the peg, and reaches into the pocket for his car keys.

“I’m going to drive by her house and see if she’s there. She won’t pick up.” Monty and Miller exchange a look before nodding. “Take care of dinner – it’s Dax and Deek’s turn to wash up, and try and check on Monroe? She thought the police were here because she’d done something wrong.”

“We’ll meet you at the station then?” David questions. Bellamy nods, heading out. The kids watch curiously as he practically storms out of the house, making a conscious effort not to slam the door. He’s not sure who to blame, as he shoves the key into the ignition of his old Honda. It’s John’s fault, sure, for committing a fucking crime, and it’s John Mbege’s fault for leaving – but that can’t be blamed at all. It’s Clarke’s fault for matching Mbege with a family that lives three hundred miles away, and it’s his fault for not managing to contain the shift in Murphy’s personality. But then again, that’s also Clarke’s fault, too.

Bellamy also blames the older kids for getting John to commit a crime, as well as the victims who called the police, and the police for not just turning a blind eye and letting him go. He can’t have one of his kids turning to crime – he _can’t._

The world isn’t kind to criminals in a different way that it isn’t kind to orphans.

Clarke’s house is a bungalow, with a small garden and a tiny porch at the front. Her pathway is neatly trimmed and groomed, and her windows are spotless in the slowly dying light. The sky above is grey and dreary, yet Clarke’s house is like a beacon – her curtains are open and yellow-orange light sheds out into the front garden. Music blasts loudly from the bungalow; light and upbeat. He can’t see her through the window, and rings the doorbell.

She doesn’t answer and the music keeps playing; Bellamy groans, gritting his teeth. He rings the doorbell again and pounds on the door with his fist. It takes a moment but the music turns off. Bellamy knocks again.

Then, in the newly found silence, the door opens and Bellamy’s mouth becomes dry.

Clarke stands before him, bare feet with paint-covered pale blue jeans, rolled up at the ankles. Her jumper is oversized, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows, and the neckline falling off one shoulder; exposing a smooth expanse of skin that’s only broken by a drop of paint and a bra strap. Clarke’s frowning; there’s a crease between her eyebrows, and a splatter of paint on her cheek. Her hair is loose – which he’s never seen before – and wavy about her shoulders. Little portions are stuck together with brightly coloured paint, and her hands are different colours entirely.

“Bellamy?” she greets, pushing a sleeve back up her arm where it slips down.

“Uh, Clarke,” he stammers. She stands, expectant; her back arched and her head held high. Even without the fancy clothes she’s still impressive. Bellamy takes a short moment to collect himself – he’s never seen her this way before, never seen her actually _comfortable_ , which is apparently something he’s attracted to. He takes back his comments he made in his head about her not ever being able to get her hands dirty, before Bellamy opens his mouth to speak again.

“You didn’t pick up your phone,” he tells her. Then there’s a hint of anger, because _she didn’t pick up her phone._

“Oh,” she says, a little surprised. “I guess I couldn’t hear it over the music.” She turns, unperturbed, to go find it, but he stops her with the hard edge in his voice.

“I called six times,” he grounds out. She pauses, looking up at him carefully.

“What happened?”

“John Murphy has been arrested.” Her mouth makes an ‘O’, and then she’s moving. Clarke doesn’t bother to get changed, but she slips on some shoes and runs her hands under the tap in the kitchen, scrubbing hard at the skin. Bellamy stands in the living room of her house, looking around at everything in a warm, cosy, yellow light. There’s a tarp spread out across the floor, and her furniture has been pushed aside. There’s a large canvas, bigger than him, propped up against the wall, and it’s covered with paint – large splatters and some brushed lines. He can’t tell what she’s painting, but it looks unfinished.

Then Clarke joins him next to it, rolling a hair band off of her wrist and tying up her hair in a messy pony tail.

“You have your car?” She asks. Bellamy nods.

“Good, let’s get going.” She snags her bag on the way out, and picks a folder from her shelf – John’s, Bellamy guesses – in case she needs it. Then they’re on their way, letting her house stay lit up as Bellamy drives towards the station.

-

Clarke takes the lead when they reach the station. She’s a whirlwind; a strong force to be reckoned with; knowing their rights and John’s, all whilst having paint in her hair. The police don’t for one minute not take her seriously; the minute she storms into the building, an angry Bellamy in tow, they know what they’re dealing with, and that they’re definitely underprepared.

David Miller greets them, surprised that Clarke is the social worker, and soon they’re in a room with him and John, cowering in his chair. David is stoic and calm, opposite the child, and Clarke pulls up a chair for herself.

“I’m his legal social worker,” she explains to Bellamy. “I’m allowed to be in here during the questioning, and say when he doesn’t need to answer a question. But I’m _sure_ Sargent Miller is going to know his limits.” There’s something cold in her voice; something strong and unnerving, as if she’s dealt with asshole cops before.

Bellamy rubs John’s arms, leaning down to him. “Just answer the questions, be polite, and we’ll get out of here soon, okay?” John nods, afraid; the angry demeanour that he’s been wearing for weeks has faded and now he’s just a scared child, with the water way over his head.

Bellamy isn’t allowed to be in the room during questioning, and paces outside in the hall. How could one of _his kids_ commit a crime? How could that be at all possible? He raises them the best he can; he raises them with every inch of the good in his being.

“Some just slip through the cracks,” Clarke sighs, later, sitting on the uncomfortable plastic chairs. The officers are discussing John and his case, and they are waiting to be told whether or not the victim will be pressing charges. It’s a middle-aged couple, their kids already gone off to university, and Bellamy has already told them that if they let him off without charges, he’ll be able to pay for the window John had broken.

“But they shouldn’t, Clarke – that’s why I do this.” She looks at him questioningly. “You’ve been with us for four months and I haven’t told you why I started an orphanage?” Bellamy’s actually genuinely shocked. He tells the story a lot.

Clarke shifts in her seat; the plastic making a squelching noise that she chooses to ignore, and watches him openly. It’s odd how definite he is that he has her full attention.

“O is fourteen years younger than me,” he starts. “And our mother was just terrible. We have two different fathers; mine died, O’s walked out. So, when our mother dies when I’m twenty two, I have this eight year old who doesn’t like rules and bedtimes, and gets into fights at school. The social workers – they fought me for quite a while about me being her legal guardian. I have a lot of debts to work off from university, and I was working in a bar and a coffee shop, whilst trying to write my first book.”

“You’re a writer?”

“Was,” he corrects. “I’m not anymore. So they don’t see me as particularly fit to look after a kid, but I refuse to let her go – Octavia’s my sister. She’s all I had left and I wasn’t going to let them take her.” Bellamy coughs and Clarke keeps her eyes and attention trained on him. “At the time, there was the Ark Orphanage, on the other side of town. This place was a wreck, with only about ten children left in it, and it was going under. One day, the social worker we had at the time – this old guy, Dante Wallace-“

“Cage’s dad,” Clarke replies. Bellamy nods.

“Yeah, well he took us there to check the place out, because there weren’t any foster parents at the time in the area who would look at Octavia. So we went, and this place was disgusting. They had two members of staff, no one cleaned anything, and half the kids weren’t even going to school. I asked Dante about it when we left – after I refused to let Octavia back into the building, ever. He said that they didn’t really get foster parents looking there, and no one wanting to adopt did, either. Everyone just avoided the place like the plague, and he wasn’t even sure if there was a social worker for the home, because everyone kept dropping their case.”

“They let each of those kids slip through the cracks,” Clarke says, understanding.

“Exactly. I started up Blake Orphan Home about two years later – I worked for the funds, and a few months before the place opened up, when I was still repairing the old building, Ark shut down, and these kids were all thrown right back into the system again.”

“Monroe came from Ark Orphanage,” Clarke realises. Bellamy nods.

“She’s the last one left,” he replies. “I don’t want anyone to have to be without someone who loves them, Clarke. The kids I have weren’t as lucky as Octavia – they didn’t have someone like me who would refuse to let them go. They need someone who’s going to love and care for them, and they need someone who puts their focus on getting them into a better life.”

Clarke eyes him for a moment, before smiling.

“That’s what I’m here for Bellamy,” she says. “Getting them into a better life is my priority, and yours is to love them, and care for them, unconditionally.” She pauses for a moment. “Together, we might just have a chance.”

Bellamy doesn’t get to respond, because they’re called over to talk to the victims of John’s criminal exploits. Even if he had a chance, Bellamy has no idea what he would have said.

-

John is let off with a warning, but it doesn’t stop Bellamy from taking him into the interview room and lecturing him for half an hour about being immature, vandalising, destructing property and being what the law likes to call a _criminal_. The entire time, John is silent, and the house probably is, too, listening to Bellamy yell before he lowers his voice, trying to understand John’s feelings – he just wants to _understand_.

But John doesn’t talk, and so when the door finally clicks open, Bellamy, weary and worn, looks up to find Clarke standing in the doorway.

“I think it’s time for John to go to bed,” she says after a beat. Bellamy nods, slumping into a chair and resting his head in his hands. One of his kids – _his kids_ – is a criminal. That’s something he just can’t wrap his head around.

Clarke nods John out of the room, and waits a moment before shutting the door. She slips into the chair opposite Bellamy and they wait in the silence for a moment.

“My mother’s a doctor,” Clarke says, fiddling with her fingers. “And my dad – he was an engineer until he died when I was seven.”

“You don’t have to do this, Clarke,” Bellamy sighs, looking up at her through his lashes. He’s tired and done with today – he just wants to sleep. Clarke shakes her head.

“I want to,” she replies. “So, he dies of a type of cancer – it’s rare, and my Mum, being the best neuro surgeon in the country, should have at least _noticed_ the symptoms before he died. Or, at least, I thought she should have. I blamed her for so many years, Bellamy. When I was sixteen my best friend, Wells, was shot dead in an alleyway. He was Thelonious Jaha’s son – the Mayor of Ark? Well, someone had it out for Jaha, so they took it out on Wells.” He watches as her knuckles turn white for a moment; her hands squeezing tightly together. “I could have been a surgeon like my mother, or a painter like I wanted to be.”

“But you’re a social worker,” Bellamy says. Clarke nods.

“There isn’t a backstory to that decision. I’m an only child, I grew up in a mansion, I’ve eaten caviar more than once.” Bellamy snorts. “But I _care_ , Bellamy. I wanted to help people – there are kids out there who don’t have families, don’t have many opportunities, and just need to know that even if they’re getting passed around from house to house, that they have someone on their side.”

Bellamy studies her for a moment before she speaks again. “Wells – he, uh, he wanted to be a social worker, before he died. He would give off this speech, about how it would probably do more than becoming a politician, like his father. He could work directly with the kids, show them that they’re loved.”

“You do this because he didn’t get the chance to?” Bellamy asks. Clarke shakes her head.

“I suppose that’s a backstory to the choice in itself,” she replies. “But I chose it because I want it too. I want to be here, and get each of these kids into a home they’ll love. I want to get Monroe adopted, and keep John from getting a prison sentence, and help Raven and Finn move across the country. I _want_   to get in contact with Emori’s uncle and see if he’ll take her in, I _want_ to find Dax a home that will be nurturing and show him that anger isn’t the best way, I _want_ to watch these kids take on the world, Bellamy.”

“How long have you been doing this?” he asks, thinking back to the station, and the police already knowing of her.

“About three years,” she replies. “I’ve had a lot of bad eggs in my care – but I work my ass off to give them a better life.” Clarke scrapes her chair back and stands up. “Like I said earlier, I’m here for these kids – I’m here to help. I know it’s new, having someone who cares about the kids the way that you do, but it’s not a bad thing.” She reaches the door before looking back. “Get some sleep. Miller and Monty left while you were talking to John.” Clarke leaves the room and Bellamy lets his head spin for a while.

He then heads up to his room, not stopping to talk to anyone. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Octavia watching, and he assumes she’ll send the kids to bed.

But for one moment, he needs to not be in charge. He doesn’t want the authority; he just wants to curl up in his bed and let sleep wash over him. He doesn’t doubt that Clarke cares for the kids – but his worldview has had to shift too many times today. Bellamy doesn’t want to think about it anymore.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> last chapter i'm not good at endings but i genuinely TRIED

A few more weeks pass, and the Blake Orphan Home gets back to normal. Bellamy loves these kids, so he pushes his confusion around Clarke in her entirety onto a back burner, and goes back to focusing on the children in his care. Clarke still comes round every few days after school. Most of the time she brings in a couple who want a child, and brings down the kids who fit their lifestyles – sometimes older, depending on the people – and letting them have their interviews. Bellamy hands her a key to the house, because it’s about time that she should stop having to knock on the door, and he doesn’t want to be woken up in the early mornings by Fox each weekend.

Monroe finds him in his room, almost a month after John’s infraction with the police. He’s searching through his book shelves, trying to find his copy of The Iliad – Octavia’s supposed to be reading it for English, and she’s lost her copy – when there’s a timid knock at the door. Bellamy glances over.

“Hey, Roe,” he smiles, looking back to the book shelf. Monroe shuffles into the room until she’s standing next to him.

“What are you looking for?” she asks.

“The Iliad,” he replies. “It’s bright yellow – tell me if you spot it?” The search in silence for a moment; Bellamy scouring the top shelves and Monroe the bottom.

“Is it that one?” Bellamy looks down and Monroe has a finger pointing at a book. He crouches down to her height and nods, slotting the book out from the shelf. After, he places it on the desk and takes a seat on his bed. “What’s up, Buttercup?” Monroe keeps staring at the book shelf for a little longer, before swivelling on one foot.

“I’ve got an interview today,” she tells him. Bellamy nods, patting the bed next to him. The little girl hesitates before climbing up onto the mattress.

“I heard,” he says. “Are you nervous about it?” She nods.

“Miss Griffin says that I’m not allowed to be mean to the couple,” she says. “And I’m not allowed to push them away or lie to them or throw a tantrum or anything.” Bellamy smiles sympathetically, wrapping an arm around Monroe’s shoulders. She automatically leans into him; small and warm against his side. She’s been here the longest and Bellamy can remember potty training her at three years old – a little late by the bar of most children, but she hadn’t really learnt before coming into his care.

Hell, Bellamy knows everything about Monroe; from the way she can’t click her fingers to how she will only eat baked beans if they’re mixed with mashed potato. He knows that she’s afraid of heights but not spiders, likes it when he speaks Filipino and repeats the phrases back, and can say the alphabet backwards. Bellamy doesn’t have favourites out of his kids, but he’s never _raised_ a child for as long as he has Monroe.

“I know you like it here, Roe,” he sighs, and it hurts his heart that he has to tell her this. “But there’s going to be a family out there that will love you and care for you, and will _want_ you with them. It’ll be better for you there.” She frowns up at him, and Bellamy swallows.

“But I’m loved here, right?”

“Yeah, you are,” he says. “But living with twenty people means that you’re not going to get the attention that you deserve.” He hates that Clarke is right.

“I get all the attention I want though,” she replies. “There’s _twenty people_ here.” Bellamy bites the inside of his cheek and presses a kiss to the top of her head. For once, her hair isn’t braided, and instead it’s loose about her shoulders, tangled and frizzy.

“I know, Roe.” Bellamy’s voice is quiet. “I love having you here, but there’s going to be a better place for you – parents and siblings, pets that you can look after. You won’t be able to have that here.” She looks up at him, watching with large eyes on the verge of tears. They match his own and he squeezes his shut for a moment before continuing. “You can’t be afraid to leave and move on; this is an adventure you have to go on. It’s an opportunity to start again, and it’ll be great if you take hold of it with both hands and face it with a smile. Monroe – I know it’s scary and it might be hard, but you won’t regret it if you meet a couple that you like, and that want you to be their daughter.”

They stare at each other for just a second before the tears slip down her face. Monroe burrows into his embrace and they hold each other tightly; her little arms not even reaching around his torso, and his grip on her probably too tight. Bellamy presses his cheek into her hair and tries to dear God not to cry. She’s like his own daughter and he doesn’t in any world want to send her away, but Clarke’s right – they’re all right.

Monroe is here to find a home that will be best for her, and living in a packed house with no privacy just won’t be. They stay like that for a while; letting the sounds of the rest of the house surround them, and hold each other until the tears run out. Eventually, Monroe sniffs and pulls back.

“Okay,” she agrees, nodding. She roughly swipes her hand across her cheeks, and Bellamy doesn’t even hesitate before his thumb gently catches the remaining tears down by her jaw. “Okay,” Monroe repeats. She slips off the bed and pads to the door, Bellamy watching her go.

When she reaches the door frame, Monroe looks back. “If… if I don’t _like_ the couple, I don’t have to go, right?” Bellamy smiles – it’s as close to an ‘I love you’ as he’s going to get. He shakes his head.

“You don’t have to – but give them a chance, okay?” She nods her head once more, before heading out into the hallway, and Bellamy gives himself a minute to breathe, before picking up the book from his desk. He makes his way to Octavia’s room silently, knocking on her door and listening to the faint _come in_ before entering.

Once in there, he holds up the book for her to see and she smiles. It falters after a moment, though.

“Are you alright?” she asks, climbing off of her bed and heading slowly towards him. He nods, placing the book on her empty desk chair, before looking towards her.

“Sometimes this is just really hard,” he says at last. Her smile is small and sympathetic, before she wraps her arms around him in a hug. They stand there, embracing, for as long as Bellamy needs, and he’s thankful to every deity there was and would ever be that even if his kids leave, Octavia is with him for life.

-

Clarke smiles at him, the next day, when two men are sitting in the interview room with John Murphy. She comes and sits in the office where he’s filling out paperwork – all the boring stuff the government wants to know – and watches him for a moment. He then looks up and studies her.

“You know,” he starts. “You don’t have to dress up all fancy every time you come into the house.” Clarke pauses, looking down at her clothes. They’re similar to normal; she either dresses in a pencil skirt or dress trousers, with a blouse and jacket.

“What’s wrong with my clothes?” Clarke questions, and Bellamy catches the heat rushing to her face.

“No, there’s nothing wrong with them,” he says. “It’s just that you’ve been here for a while – the kids all call you Miss Griffin, you’re always dressed up… it’s almost like you’re not comfortable, you know?” Clarke shifts in the chair that she’s sitting on.

“It’s called being professional,” she replies with a pointed eyebrow.

“They’re kids,” he points out. “They’re not going to care if you come in here dressed in a suit or shorts. They know what your job is, the clothes won’t change that. Besides, you’re part of the family, you know?” Clarke studies him for a moment; they look very different on either side of his desk. It’s almost as if she should be behind it; the powerful woman in expensive clothes, and Bellamy should be the other side, with a thread bare t-shirt and jeans. Even so, it feels like too much of a secret that he just said aloud.

“Are you trying to give me advice?” she asks, practically ignoring his admittance. Bellamy shrugs, thankful.

“I suppose that’s what it’s called?” She purses her lips.

“I’m supposed to look professional for the couples,” she tells him. “And when I go to the office, I need to look like I’m in a work environment.” Bellamy lets his pen roll onto the desk and leans back in his office chair.

“I was just saying,” he defends. “I happen to like your less formal clothes. If you’re wearing them when you turn up here, no one’s going to mind.” Clarke eyes him for a moment before a small smile forms across her lips.

“Your opinion is noted,” she replies. “But, part of the family, huh?” Bellamy groans on the inside.

“You know what I mean,” he replies half-heartedly.

“What, like I’m the mother or something?” She questions, raising an eyebrow. Bellamy shrugs, looking away. “Are you the dad?”

“Of course I’m the dad,” he replies. “That didn’t even need to be a question.”

“And I’m the mum?”

“Step-mum,” he corrects.

“Was Cage the original step-mum?” Bellamy laughs, looking up at the ceiling, before looking at the playful smile on Clarke’s face.

“Yeah, why not. And Miller and Monty are the gay uncles. Welcome to the family.”

It’s a weird step, but it happens all the same and Bellamy finds that he doesn’t regret it. He regrets questioning her clothes, and doubts she’ll change anything, but he’s proven wrong. It doesn’t happen immediately, but he hears a few of the kids referring to her as ‘Clarke’ and not ‘Miss Griffin’ – _a part of the family,_ ringing in his ears - and she comes in with jeans some days and the pencil skirts others.

He sends her secret smiles when she does, and she tends to roll her eyes. Then there’s the day, only a few weeks later, when she comes in wearing a summer dress. Bellamy doesn’t mean to stare – but, well, he _does._ He’s never seen her like this – he’s seen her formal, he’s seen her stained with paint, but he’s never seen her like _this_ , and it does something to him that he can’t quite explain.

Clarke smirks when she catches his eyes following her, before strolling up to him, head held high.

“You were right,” she says. “I’m sticking around, so I don’t see why I shouldn’t wear whatever I want.” It feels purposeful, and Bellamy’s stomach ties in knots at even that _idea_ of that. He just nods, not trusting his mouth to say the things he wants it to. This just makes her smirk harden. They’re in a room of other people, so she leans down, whispering in his ear, “take a picture, Blake, it’ll last longer.”

As she leaves, he hears her call over one of the kids, for their fortnightly session, but by God Bellamy would be lying if he said he looked away before she disappeared from his sight.

-

Then there’s the day Harper tells him why she’s been acting off for so, _so_ long. It’s a night like it was at the beginning, and he’s sneaking in to flick off the glowing lamp at about one in the morning. The girls are all tucked in, curled up under their duvets. Monroe has the bottom bunk on the right, and even in the light from the hallway, he can’t see her at all apart from the shape of her body. On the top bunk is Raven, her hair spilling over the edge of the bed. On the other top bunk, Fox rolls over in her sleep – she’s always moving, even when unconscious.

Then the bottom bunk, with Harper, who speaks as he turns off the glowing pink light.

“Hi,” she says into the darkness. Bellamy pauses, straightening. He waits a moment before he can hear the shifting of the bed covers and turns, watching her sit up in bed. Half of her face is illuminated, and her skin looks red and patchy. Bellamy frowns.

“Harper?” he whispers. “What are you doing awake?” She doesn’t really reply, so he swallows, creeping over. “You need your sleep, Harp,” he tells her, crouching down by the side of her bed. Up close, her eyes are bloodshot too. Gently, Bellamy cups the side of her face, running his thumb along the red, puffy skin under her eyes.

Harper sniffs, averting her eyes. “Harper?” he asks. “What’s wrong?” She just shakes her head, looking away. There’s a moment of silence, and Bellamy doesn’t know what to do; he doesn’t like seeing her hurt this way, he doesn’t know how to cope with that.

“Do I have to go to school tomorrow?” she questions, her voice almost silent and fragile. Bellamy swallows, slipping his hand down her arm and taking her hand.

“Come on, kiddo,” he tells her. She looks at him curiously, but follows him out into the hallway. Bellamy leads her downstairs quietly, flicking on the light as he goes. He was all ready to go to bed for the night, but this is more important than his sleep. They go into the kitchen, where he turns on the lights and pours her a glass of water.

They sit on stools at the work surface in the middle of the kitchen and Harper takes tiny sips from her glass.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Bellamy says quietly. Harper scrunches up her nose, and takes another sip of water.

“I don’t like school,” she replies.

“Why not? What happens that you don’t like?”

“It’s the people,” Harper says after a pause. “They don’t like me.”

“How do you know that?” She doesn’t look at him, just stares at the glass in her hands. Bellamy places a hand on her back, rubbing in slow circles.

“They’re mean to me,” is all she says. Bellamy swallows. He doesn’t know what to do; he’s never done this before. But this is part of his job, this is what he’s here for. He’s here to love and care for Harper and the kids.

“What do they do?”

Harper carefully places the half empty glass on the worktop and glances over at him. Concern is etched into every crevice of his face, and she doesn’t look at him for long.

“They yell rude things in the hallways, and take my lunch just to throw it at me. They’re rude and mean, and…” Harper trails off, and Bellamy moves to wrap his arms around her. He pulls her into his chest and she stays there for a few seconds before hugging him back.

“How much does this happen?” he asks into her hair. She shakes her head against the crook of his neck.

“Every day.”

If Bellamy were ten years younger and couldn’t lose his rights to work with kids, he would go to her school and beat the shit out of Harper’s bullies. But that’s what got him in trouble when he was a kid; and Bellamy knows that violence isn’t the answer, even if it’s often the route that worked best for him at her age.

Harper pulls away and he finds tears viciously streaming down her face. She tries to wipe them away, but that only makes her sob more. Bellamy’s heart clenches, and he doesn’t even hesitate before pulling her back in for another hug.

“I tried to do what you said,” she tells him through heavy breaths. “I tried to be strong and make it through, but I really hate it, Bell. I really fucking hate it.” Maybe tomorrow Bellamy will tell her that swearing isn’t okay for twelve year olds, but he doesn’t tonight – because sometimes the English language doesn’t convey pain like the word ‘fuck’ does.

“I know,” he sighs. “I know you hate it. And you _are_ strong, Harp – but warriors don’t win every battle, okay? There are some that are just really, really difficult to fight.” She nods into his shoulder, and he rubs soothing circles against her back. “But you know to tell someone if you’re being bullied, Harper, why didn’t you say anything?”

She pulls away, her eyes angry but also so, so tired. “Because I’m a fucking orphan who’s being bullied, Bellamy!” she exclaimed. “What else does a person need to pity me for?”

“Harper,” Bellamy replies gently. He tries to wipe away her tears and she just cries more where the damp patches are left. “Listen to me for a second.” She looks up, so young and innocent, hurt painted across her face and red scratched into her skin. “You are strong, and smart, and beautiful, and an amazing older sister to every kid here. You are so, so loved, Harper. And sometimes people need to ask for help – it’s not something to pity, it just shows that you’re human, and you can’t hold up the sky by yourself.”

“Atlas,” she murmurs, and Bellamy nods. Harper’s been in his care for only two years after having been passed from home to home throughout her life. But he loves mythology, loves telling the stories of the gods to the new kids, to the little kids, to make them feel at home. The older ones often get the story of Atlas; the Titan left to hold up the sky – because Bellamy knows better than anyone how it feels to have that weight on their shoulders.

“Any time you’re having problems, you just have to _tell_ me, okay? I can help you hold the sky if you just let me know when you need me to.” Harper nods, running a hand under her nose. “How about we don’t send you to school tomorrow, and instead we talk to Clarke about this, and we can look at our options, okay?” Harper frowns.

“I have options?”

“Yeah, you do,” he replies. “We can look if you want to change schools – the one Octavia goes to is only ten minutes from yours, and you might like it there. Or we can look at how you can combat the bullying, and what teachers we should be talking to.” Harper seems to brighten, just slightly, at the prospect of changing schools, but Bellamy’s also not sure about it. He wonders if it’s running from her problems, or if it’s just good sense.

But it’s one AM, so it’s not the time to be thinking about this. He cards a hand through her hair, before cupping her cheek.

“You’re going to be okay, Harp,” he promises. “How about we get you to bed? Everything is better after sleep, that’s my number one rule. Then we’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

“And I don’t have to go in?” There’s so much hope in his eyes, and Bellamy presses a kiss to her forehead – _his_ child.

“You don’t. I’ll call Clarke in the morning, too.” Bellamy walks Harper up to bed and pretends his heart doesn’t break in two when she wraps her arms around him tightly, whispering thank you, before slipping back into her bedroom.

But who is he kidding? His kids break his heart every day.

-

Bellamy spends the next day in his pyjamas with Harper. She’s in the same pyjamas she wore the night before, and they share a blanket on the sofa, watching films until Clarke arrives. When she does, she’s wearing the same oversized jumper she was wearing the night John Murphy was arrested, and she watches them for a moment before joining on the other side of Harper.

They wait until the end of the film to start talking about the matter at hand, but Clarke is very serious about Harper’s wellbeing, and Bellamy catches a glimpse of something familiar in her eyes.

He probably has it in his own at any one time – but it’s a lot like love for Harper, and a lot like wanting to destroy anyone who’d even consider hurting her.

Whilst they’ve been working through their steady friendship – starting from indifference to where they are now – this is moment when their previous conversation flashes in Bellamy’s mind. She’s part of the family, she _cares,_ she’s like the mother of the house; her words in the station, _getting them into a better life is my priority, and yours is to love them, and care for them, unconditionally._

_Together, we might just have a chance._

-

The day it all ends – all the confusion in Bellamy’s mind, all the questions, the stares where he can’t quite place his emotions – is a Saturday. He’s up early for once, and when Clarke comes in, just before nine AM, she’s in jeans and a blouse, with her bag slung over her shoulder. Bellamy’s in the dining room with a bowl of cereal, and he watches as she spots Fox in her arm chair and goes over to say hello.

She sits down on the sofa, and her face lights up with enthusiasm as she talks to the six year old. Fox smiles back, comfortable and at ease with her social worker – with _Clarke_ , because they’re calling her by her first name, now. Bellamy sits down and watches for a moment, before Clarke glances over and spots him.

She says something to Fox, who nods and waves, before wandering over.

“Morning,” she greets.

“Morning,” he replies with a nod. “Want some breakfast?”

“Already ate,” Clarke says. Bellamy shakes his head, mock disappointed with a smile playing about his lips.

“You do realise you pay for that food, right? When you could eat free food here.” Clarke smiles at him and slips into the seat next him on the bench.

“Wouldn’t want to eat you out of house and home.”

“You’re right,” he agrees. “I already have twenty kids who do that for me.” She still reaches over anyway, taking a sip of his coffee, and it feels friendly, affectionate, even if she wrinkles her nose up at the taste.

“Sugar?” she questions. Bellamy nods. “Not setting a good example.” He raises a single eyebrow.

“Me? Not setting a good example?”

“It’s unhealthy,” is her only defence, and the two smile at each other, shaking their heads. “I should show you some healthy food some time,” she continues, her voice purposeful. Bellamy raises an eyebrow.

“I don’t think I’ve cooked an actual meal in years,” he replies. “Any unhealthy diet I have is down to Miller.” Clarke smiles, fond.

“I’m a good cook,” she says. “I could show you a thing or two sometime.” Bellamy pauses before nodding.

“Yeah,” he smiles. “Yeah you could.” Clarke glances down at his now-empty bowl, and stands up.

“I’ll help you wash up,” she tells him, and takes his mug before he has the chance to protest. She walks purposefully to the kitchen, not even looking back to see if he’s coming along, too. But – Bellamy’s interested. He _wants_ to follow her, so he does and sets the bowl down by the sink. Before he even has a chance to speak – to arrange that dinner because it sounds an awful lot like a date to him (he’s not complaining in the slightest), Clarke tugs on his hand.

As Bellamy turns, his lips crash into Clarke’s, who had surged up to meet them. His eyes are wide with surprise for only a moment, before they gradually shut. Bellamy pushes back into the kiss; melting into it, into her. His hands find purchase on her hips and hers graze up his arms, sending shivers through his body.

He bites down gently on her lower lip, and when she opens, licks into her mouth. He can feel the corners of her lips quirk upwards, but he smothers it, hands roaming, kissing with purpose. Her fingers begin to card through his hair, nails carefully scraping at his scalp and making his breathing heavier than it already was.

Bellamy loses himself in Clarke; his head spins, his thoughts vanish. He’s not sure how they made it to this point but it feels inevitable, it feels _right_. It’s like the only person who could ever make him feel this way could be Clarke – like she’s perfectly aligned with him.

When they pull apart, it’s slow, chaste kisses against each other’s lips as if they don’t want to cut off the contact just yet. Bellamy’s eyes flutter open, to watch Clarke’s do the same, and he presses his forehead against hers.

“What was that for?” he asks, low, quiet. She smiles.

“Couldn’t resist,” she replies. “I’ve always thought that just going for it is the best way to resolve a crush.” Bellamy’s heart flips at the word _crush_ and he grins.

“I think that’s a good idea,” he says. “I’m all for that.” Clarke nods, pulling away from Bellamy and studying him in the light. It’s quiet, he realises. The world isn’t really awake yet, and they have this moment to themselves; their own little bubble.

“I was serious, about me cooking for you some time,” Clarke tells him. “I know you don’t get much time to yourself, but-“

“But I can get Miller and Monty to cover them,” Bellamy replies immediately. God knows he deserves a little me time – and if he gets the chance, Bellamy’s not going to mind spending his free time with her. Clarke smiles up at him, hands drifting down his arms until she reaches his own hands; much larger and more calloused than her own. They hold each other’s hands for a moment, letting themselves have that contact, before there’s the sound of a crash coming from upstairs.

“I should probably-“ Bellamy sighs, letting their moment be broken.

“I’ll join you,” Clarke says. It’s like a partnership, and from there out – things are easier, with the two of them rather than one.

-

At dinner a month or so later, the bell rings and immediately the sound of footsteps running down the stairs are the only sounds that Bellamy can hear. Children rush to the table; Finn and Raven, holding hands and tugging one another along; Harper sitting down by Monroe; Dax and John Murphy taking over one end of a table with their friends. It’s all very familiar; the smell of food wafting into the dining room, Miller opening the hatch so the food can be served, Clarke finding herself a seat because she’s been staying for dinner more and more often (which only makes his heart jump a little) and on the nights she doesn’t, it’s because he’s at her home instead.

Bellamy quietens them down and looks around the room. Their faces all turn towards him and he smiles because this is his home and his family.

“Is everyone here?” There’s silence for a moment. “Speak if you’re not.” It still gets a giggle – Bellamy will die with that joke coming out of his mouth. His eyes land on Octavia who’s counted the group and sends him a thumbs up.

“So,” he says. “We have a lot to be thankful for tonight. We can be thankful because we have some amazing food to eat, because we have a roof over our heads and fresh water on tap. We’re all alive, we’re all well fed, we’re all in a place with people that care about us.” He sees a couple of smiles around the room and continues. “We have Clarke, here, who’s been working tirelessly to find you all good homes, and has succeeded a lot. We have more room at our table because a few more of you guys have been adopted. And also-“

Bellamy looks over to Monroe, sitting next to Harper. The latter of the two girls is smiling, and she’s such a long shot away from that night where he eyes were red and bloodshot and her sobs (those sounds that will probably haunt him for years to come) racked through her body. She wears the same uniform as Octavia now, and there’s pen on her arm from doodles, and notes in her books from friends.

Next to her, Monroe has her three braids in her hair, made by Bellamy’s hands. She’s smiling up at him, like always, but there’s a sadness on her face – because she knows what’s to come.

“Also, tonight is Zoe Monroe’s last night with us.” The faces in the room turn to her, now. “Monroe, you were the first child here at Blake Orphan Home, almost six years ago, now. You came here when you were three and tiny, and you’ve grown into such an amazing person.” Monroe grins up at him. “Monroe’s been adopted by a great couple – two women named Anya and Lexa Woods – who don’t live too far from here, so she’ll be able to visit and we’ll all definitely see her again. We will all miss you, Monroe.”

The room is silent for a moment, before he claps his hands once. “Alright, let’s eat.”

The food is passed out and Bellamy takes his seat in between Monroe and Clarke. Monroe leans into him at any and all times, and Bellamy helps her with twirling spaghetti around her fork because she still isn’t very good at it. Across from them, Atom talks about his day at school and tries to explain what he learnt in Science. Clarke joins in on the conversation, her knee constantly pressed up against Bellamy’s.

He can’t say he’s not in love with this woman, even though it’s so fast and it’s so scary to let himself feel like that for another person. Even so, Bellamy knows that he feels it inside. He _knows_ that he can love someone who loves him, who loves his kids. He knows that he’d even share that title – if it’s with Clarke. He knows it because he feels it, in his gut, he feels the words ‘our kids’ spilling out of him just for this woman.

Bellamy knows that Clarke doesn’t need him, but she wants him, she loves him, and she keeps him all the same. And he knows, if he’s given the chance, he will be as dedicated to _her_ as he is to every single one of _their_ kids.

Bellamy Blake is pretty damn lucky, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANKS SO SO MUCH FOR READING  
> THIS WAS MY SOUL IN A FIC. GOSH.  
> It means a lot that you read this, so thanks a billion. Please click the kudos button and drop me a comment because I live off of the validation of others. <3  
> I also cried during the writing of the Harper and Monroe scenes I'm just saying

**Author's Note:**

> AYE thanks for reading!!!  
> i worked super SUPER hard on this fic, so i'd love to know your thoughts??????  
> comments and kudos are loved and appreciated, thanks
> 
> i, by the way, know very little about orphanages. just that there aren't many in first world countries anymore, and the ones in third world are often used as money making schemes, with very little having licenses and others having only a small percentage of the kids as orphans. Bellamy's orphanage is legit, licensed and a genuinely nice place to be, by orphanage standards.


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